


Eye

by nerigby96



Series: Insult to Injury [6]
Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: 1940s, Age Difference, Caring, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 07:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22292032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: If the boys met in 1942, that's where we are now, or at the latest early '43. Either way, Jerry is sixteen years old.Please forgive any egregious Italian - or better yet, correct me :)Also, I do realise that bruises probably don't work like that.I'm not here, really, just posting and leaving.Thank you for reading <3
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Series: Insult to Injury [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1565770
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	Eye

He’s in the middle of his third drink when a terrible jolt convulses his spine. The punchline of some fella’s crass joke misses its mark as Dean’s head swivels round, eyes picking through the crowd towards the bar, where he left the kid ten minutes ago. He’s still there, happily kicking his legs and beaming up at a hulking stone wall doing a bad impression of a human being. The kid’s mouth flaps, and the wall’s beady black eyes turn into furnaces.

Dean practically falls out of the booth. He scrambles across the club, eyes fixed on the impending disaster. Any other night, any other time, it’d be easy, so easy to get in between them, to get in front of the kid before anything serious happens. But there are too many people here, too many shooting him dirty looks or crying out as he barges past. He hardly sees, hardly hears, just struggles through the crowd, and the big brute's arm is winding back, back, and then pistoning out, fist clenched.

Dean’s too late.

The kid’s head snaps back. He flies from his stool, and in that same instant, Dean crashes into the fella and knocks him to the floor. A waitress cries out, jumps back just in time, as Dean hauls the fucker to his feet and bears him out into the night.

When it’s over, he goes to the kid. Dean grabs him, shakes him, shouts at him, pulls him away from the bar, past the concerned little knot of people gathered around the broken lump in the street, and back to the hotel. He’s dragging him, can hear his shoes clatter and slip on the stairs behind him; he gropes for the bannister, tries to steady himself, but Dean keeps hold, gets him to the bedroom door, and finally looks back.

The kid's face streams.

Something huge and cold scorches Dean’s veins. He drags the kid through the door, locks it, all but shoves him on to the bed.

“Dean, I—”

“ _Taci_.” He’s trembling, has to look away from the kid’s reddened, swollen eye.

“Don’t be mad, Dean, I—”

“Fuck’re you talkin’ about? _Mad_? At _you_?”

“Well, who else?” He’s hoarse, choked, nearly shouting himself, hands twisting in the blankets. He stares desperately at Dean, whose heart thuds.

“What’sa matter with you? You crazy? With that – that – _succhiacazzi_! Fuck he think he is, doin’ that? Some kid? Hittin’ some _kid_? Fuckin’ _vigliacco_.” He rants, spits, rattles off as many insults as he can call to mind, mostly Italian, mostly unrepeatable, stomping around the foot of the bed. _Mad?_ He turns the word over and over. It’s a crazy word, he thinks. Crazy, when he's never been so scared in his life.

In a moment of sudden silence, the kid whispers, “Dean?”

“ _What_?”

The kid flinches. With an almighty effort Dean swallows his anger, lets it fester deep in his gut, away from his mouth. He kneels and touches the kid's knee. “Sorry, kid. I didn’t mean…” He shakes his head. “Sorry for shoutin’.”

The kid shrugs. “’Sall right.” He rests trembling fingertips on Dean’s split knuckles. “You came to help me.” And then, very small: “Thank you.”

Dean has an idea that the kid might like to kiss his knuckles. It’s a crazy thought, but then again, the kid’s known for them.

Dean sighs. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“How long?

“Two minutes.”

The kid nods. Dean’s gone and back in a minute-fifty.

He lays out two handkerchiefs and asks the kid for a third. He folds them into a large triangle, fills it with chunks of ice and ties a knot above the frozen pile.

“Here, kid.” He shows him how much pressure to use. Then he sits on the floor in front of him, close to him, and because his hands are shaking, he lights a cigarette and puffs, staring at the bed, trying to push it out of his mind. The fist, the kid’s eye. He shudders, brings his knees to his chest. The kid watches him. He makes a little noise in the back of his throat. Dean passes the cigarette over, holds the kid’s hand to help him smoke, then takes it back, finishes it.

He needs a drink.

“Jer?”

“Mm?”

“Lemme see.”

Jerry takes away the handkerchief. The bruise has darkened. Dean imagines it going black and purple and blue and green and yellow. Maybe some more colours no one’s seen before. A little blood has seeped into the sliver of visible white.

“Do I look handsome, Dean?” Grinning, or trying to; tears leak steadily from the corner of his poor eye.

“Not right now, kid, but you’ll get back there.”

“Back?” He cocks his head like a curious puppy.

“Yeah. A week. Maybe two a shiner like this.” He frowns. “You ever have a black eye before, Jer?”

“Oh, sure. Kid at school ga’ me one.” He yawns and shrugs and wets his lips. “’M tired.”

Dean wants to ask about the little _teppista_ from Jer’s school, but instead he says, “You wanna stay here tonight?” He knows it’s pointless to ask. In the first instance, the kid’s in no state to go anywhere; and in the second, the kid would never say no. Dean doesn’t know how he knows or what to make of it, but there it is.

“Mm.” He nods lethargically. “’M sorry I got in trouble, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he does it anyway; he leans forward and presses his mouth gently to the kid’s eyebrow. It isn’t a kiss, not really, just a little pressure, soft so it doesn’t hurt. It lasts maybe a second. Then Dean leans away and moves the kid’s hand with the makeshift compress back to the bruise. The handkerchief drips lukewarm water on their writs.

“What was that?” The kid sounds dazed, and his good eye has a glassy look to it, like he’s gone suddenly blind.

Dean chuckles. “Don’t worry about it, kid.”

**Author's Note:**

> If the boys met in 1942, that's where we are now, or at the latest early '43. Either way, Jerry is sixteen years old.  
> Please forgive any egregious Italian - or better yet, correct me :)  
> Also, I do realise that bruises probably don't work like that.  
> I'm not here, really, just posting and leaving.  
> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
